Lexicon
by balladofbliss
Summary: Five times a single word from Sam changed Andy's mind.
1. Because

First of all, thank you for the great response to "Steady Now". It took a lot out of me, so I'm aiming for something a bit closer to the fluff end of the spectrum. As the summary mentioned, this is the first of five parts (the others are all written to varying degrees in my head, and this one was the most difficult for me to conceive of). I find it a lot easier to get into Sam's head for some reason, so I wanted to challenge myself by writing from Andy's perspective. I guess time will tell if that was a worthwhile decision or not. :-)

This one is set toward the end of 1x04, Signals Crossed – if the "I don't want anything to happen to you" conversation never took place. (I do love that conversation, so hopefully this kind of works in lieu of it.) Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading.

* * *

**Because.**

She lets him drive her home because her feet hurt and it smells like rain. She knows the offer is his attempt at contrition for his harsh words at the scene earlier, but as soon as she closes the passenger-side door, the palpable tension within the cab of the truck engulfs her. He jams the key in the ignition and the engine turns over a little louder and longer than is probably necessary. She glances surreptitiously at his clenched jaw, the white-knuckle grip on the gearshift as he yanks it into drive, and sinks down a little in the bucket seat.

They turn out of the parking lot and are stopped at a red light on the following block when he breaks the silence. "You're lucky your instincts are good."

She looks at him, surprised. "Thank you, sir," she murmurs.

"Not a compliment," he says tightly. The light turns green, and her head meets the backrest as he accelerates. "You know, I knew you were gonna be a pain in the ass from day one, but you really know how to exceed expectations."

_Yeah, he's definitely still pissed_. "Okay," she responds quietly. "I know I screwed up tonight. I get it."

"You're relentless," he continues, as if he didn't hear her. "Stubborn. Clearly can't lie to save your own life. You're the only rookie I've ever seen who manages to be impulsive and overanalytical at the same time."

She looks out the window, where dark clouds are rapidly rolling across the sky, blocking out the morning sun. She briefly debates jumping out at the next stoplight and taking her chances in the imminent downpour. "Are you done?"

He shoots her a brief look, surprise and irritation evident in his expression before he turns back to the road. "No. You could've gotten someone – gotten _yourself_ killed…"

"I know," she says sharply. "And I already feel horrible about it, so really, thank you for finding new and creative ways to remind me. So glad to know I'm worth your time in spite of all that."

"You're not," he says evenly.

The words sting more than she wants them to, and she's attempting to compose herself enough to tell him that it's one thing to criticize her for a mistake and something else to be downright_ rude_, when he clears his throat.

"Not 'in spite of'." He pulls up to the curb in front of her building, putting the truck in park and shifting in his seat toward her. "You're worth it because."

_Because? Are we speaking in riddles now, Officer Swarek?_ His laundry list returns to the forefront of her mind. _Oh_. She blinks a couple of times as the realization washes over her, hesitantly meeting his eyes.

There's something in his gaze that doesn't quite read 'training officer.' It's warm, gentle – apparently magnetic, since she can't seem to break the stare. The same sensation she'd had in the parking lot of the Penny a few weeks ago begins a measured rise in her chest: apprehension that she shouldn't be feeling any of this, with an underlying awareness that she doesn't know how not to. It's taking every splinter of self-control she has not to reach for him –

And then his eyes snap back to the windshield, and the moment evaporates. (She wants to chase after the feeling, ask it to come back; as unsettling as it is, it's somehow worse to be without it.) She slowly turns her gaze forward, watching the steady drizzle as it streams down the glass.

"You bring who you are to the job," he begins in an uncertain but distinctly professional tone. "Everyone does. You just have to figure out how to hone it, make it work for you. That takes time. Practice."

She nods, releasing a slow breath. "Right."

"Do you have an umbrella?" he asks abruptly, looking past her out the window. "It's kind of a hike to the door."

"Um…" She halfheartedly rifles through the outside pocket of her duffel, knowing plenty well that her search is futile. "No, but it's fine. It's just water."

He wordlessly reaches behind his seat and holds a compact black umbrella out to her, his eyes making it clear that there's no room for argument.

"Thanks," she says, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly. "So you're always prepared, huh?"

He shrugs. "I've been known to read a weather report from time to time."

She thanks him again and opens the door, shaking the umbrella open to cover her head before she steps out. With a slight wave of her hand, she turns toward the building.

"McNally," she hears him call behind her. She looks back to see him leaning toward the open passenger window.

"It's supposed to rain all week," he informs her.

She takes a step back toward the truck. "Is that so?"

He nods. "I'll pick you up at seven-thirty tomorrow. If you think you can handle being ready on time."

She can't suppress the grin that spreads across her face of its own volition. "You just want your umbrella back."

"Get some sleep," he responds. "Early mornings like to sneak up on you."

She walks toward the building as he drives off and climbs the stairs to her apartment. She drops her bag near the door, places the umbrella in the bathtub, and trades her street clothes for pajamas. Inclement weather normally leads her to sleep like a rock, and after the events of last night, she expects to hit the pillow hard – but as she sets the alarm for noon and climbs into bed, her thoughts are in overdrive.

He's her T.O. Gail stated it well: anything happening between them would be a big no-no. But she's always successfully held every guy she's ever been with at arm's length. It makes it easier to be the one who walks away, and in her experience, somebody always does. With him, though, she's not sure she'd be able to – or even that she'd want to. It terrifies her to imagine allowing anyone to see past her defenses, but she has a feeling that whether she likes it or not, he already has. She pulls a throw pillow over her face and groans into it; morning apparently isn't the only thing sneaking up on her.

Exhaustion eventually overtakes her racing mind, and she begins to drift off. He's off-limits right now – but he won't be forever.

* * *

She wakes up before the alarm, showers and gets dressed. She promised Luke yesterday that she'd meet him at Doc's down the street for coffee. The rain hasn't let up, so she slips tall rubber boots on over her jeans, grabbing Sam's umbrella as she heads out the door.

Luke is already sitting at a table with two steaming mugs when she arrives. He stands up as she enters the café. "Hey."

"Hey," she greets him, taking a seat opposite him.

He settles back in his chair, placing his hands around his cup. "Heard you had kind of a rough night."

She shrugs. "Could have been better, could have been a lot worse." She hears the smile in her voice before she realizes it's there.

"Any reason you're so happy this afternoon?" he teases. When she looks up, it's not Luke she sees.

"Just… because."


	2. Please

A/N: Thank you for the reviews, alerts, and favorites! It's very encouraging, and I hope you continue to enjoy.

We're picking up here toward the end of 2x07, The One That Got Away. (Let's assume that since the previous chapter, Andy got nervous about the potential consequences of breaking the rules, things with Luke started to take off, and everything progressed more or less as in canon. I'm aiming to basically follow canon with certain AU elements, versus totally rewriting the timeline, if that makes any sense.)

The way this episode ended has always bothered me. I thought things between Andy and Sam were resolved way too quickly; although it clearly wasn't her sole focus at the time, he did seem to get off pretty easily for leaving her – so this chapter will address that situation a little further. Just FYI, we spend a lot of time in Andy's head here, and given the circumstances, it's not the happiest place in the world. Let me know what you think.

(Oh, and according to IMDB, Traci's mom is named Anita.)

Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

* * *

**Please.**

It only takes a moment of sitting there by herself before she realizes that as desperate as she is for an escape from the turmoil in her head, solitude isn't it. She observes the details of the room to distract herself from the temporary isolation. Silver track lighting along the edges of the ceiling. A black-and-white cityscape hanging on the wall. The polished surface of the mahogany table beneath her briskly tapping fingers – whether the repetitive motion is due to apprehension, impatience, or a combination thereof, she isn't sure.

She considers the alternate route her night could have taken. Telling Traci the truth about Luke as they drive; settling on the pull-out in the living room with a cup of that strawberry tea she really likes but never thinks to buy; Leo sitting next to her in his Transformers pajamas and quietly asking why she's sad until Anita clears her throat and pointedly reminds him that it's past bedtime.

Andy once again imagines the sympathy in their eyes as they mill around her, and it's just as intolerable a thought this time around. It's the reason that when Sam followed her out of the locker room and offered his place once more, she conceded that Traci's _was_ likely to be too crowded for an extra person. Maybe she should have stuck to her guns, but it's clear to her at this point that there's always room for another mistake – and if nothing else, she's reasonably certain he won't look at her like that. The hangdog expression he's had since they left the barn is pretty unnerving, but at least it's not the piteous poor-little-thing look that irks and nauseates her simultaneously. _People are going to be doing that all day tomorrow, aren't they._ She cringes at the thought, her fingertips reaching up to rub slow circles on her temples.

She doesn't hear Sam enter the room, and tries not to jump as she notices movement out of the corner of her eye. He's carrying two plates. "I haven't had a chance to go to the store for a while," he says as he places one down before her. "Hope grilled cheese is all right."

"It's great." She nods. "Thanks. You didn't have to…"

He waves her off and pulls out an adjacent chair, picking up his own sandwich. "Can't let you starve."

She doesn't buy his nonchalant tone for a second. He knows grilled cheese sandwiches are her comfort food of choice, the first thing she learned to make as a kid when there was suddenly no one else around to cook. He's watched her order them at diners on countless difficult days, commenting on their apparent magic as the first bite brings a long-awaited smile to her face.

Plus, she overheard his caffeine-deprived rant to Oliver before parade today about how absurdly crowded the grocery store had been after shift last night – so she wouldn't be surprised if the pantry is a lot more fully stocked than he's leading her to believe. Not that she's expecting anything fancy – she's not expecting anything, really – but the appearance of one in front of her is hardly a coincidence. If she weren't immensely disappointed in him right now, she'd think it was sweet.

She keeps her eyes on her plate as they eat in silence. He's waiting for her to make the first move, she knows, but she's not ready to talk. It's impossible to know exactly what kind of vitriol will emerge when – _if _she begins, and regardless of what he's done (or, more accurately, _hasn't_ done), she recognizes that some things can't be taken back once they've been expelled into the atmosphere.

Anyway, it's not uncomfortable. As usual, it's easier to be near him than not, even when she's upset with him. He does seem to have that effect on her; completely illogical and kind of maddening, but she probably wouldn't know what to do without it.

She finishes her sandwich, and allows her gaze to drift up, settling on the framed skyline print. There aren't any landmarks she can identify, but she continues to study it, her desire to maintain the current quiet overruling her curiosity.

"It's Chicago."

The sound of his voice is somewhat jarring, and she can't help but glance at him. "Sarah got it for me for Christmas a while back. I, uh… had to do a sister-city project my last year of school." He shrugs. "Always wanted to go, since then."

"You never went?"

"Not yet." He stands up, collecting their empty plates. "Let me just take care of these. You want to watch TV, or…"

She rises as well. "I'm actually pretty tired, so…"

He nods, avoiding her eyes. "Right, right. Um, first door on the left once you get upstairs."

She quickly decides against reminding him that she remembers – it hasn't been _that_ long since the blackout, even if it does feel like a hundred years have passed overnight. She grabs her bag and trudges up the stairs, stepping over the threshold slowly when she reaches the room.

This is usually the part where she does an about-face, stammering a lame excuse as she walks toward the exit. But as she looks around, she finds she has no motivation to do so. He's also simply the wrong person on whom to perform her typical M.O. Even if she could, he'd just find some way not to let her. It has to be why things always end up like this, the two of them dancing around one another; he's the exception to every rule she's ever had.

She hears the hallway floor creak softly behind her and turns around as he steps into the room.

"So the sheets are clean," he says. "You need something to sleep in? Toothbrush or anything? I should have a new one somewhere."

She holds up her duffel in response. It's stuffed with clothes and toiletries; she expects to be living out of it for a while.

"Okay," he responds. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

"Downstairs?" she hears herself say.

"Yeah. Lumbar support's pretty good for a couch." A ghost of a smile passes over his face, gone almost as soon as it appears.

"Can you just…" It suddenly seems insurmountable to tell him she doesn't want to be alone, so she gestures awkwardly toward the bed, then back to him.

He's clearly trying to figure out what she's requesting for a moment before recognition enters his expression. He raises his eyebrows. "You want me to…?"

She looks away, nodding wordlessly.

He exhales slowly. "You sure?"

"Sam." She hasn't said his name since he stormed off from her and the squad car; it feels foreign on her lips.

"Okay," he says. "Yeah, that's fine."

She slips into the bathroom, quickly changing into yoga pants and a worn T-shirt displaying the name of a band that broke up at least ten years ago. She brushes her teeth – he has the good toothpaste, with the stripes – and slowly opens the door when she's finished. He's not there, but she hears movement downstairs. She walks over to the bed and peels back the comforter, sitting on the edge and studying the floor until his footsteps approach.

He's holding two tumblers filled with water as he walks back in. He hands her one before walking around to the opposite side of the bed and placing the other on the nightstand. "I'll be right back." He crosses the room again and the bathroom door closes behind him.

She takes a sip of water before putting the glass down, pulls her legs up onto the mattress and slides the comforter up to her shoulders. She stares at the ceiling as he emerges from the bathroom and turns off the lamp.

Twenty minutes later, her eyes are still wide open. She rotates her head to the left; Sam is turned on his side, his back toward her, but she can tell he's not sleeping either. This is little improvement over being by herself. All she wants is to fall asleep and start over in the morning, discuss things with him calmly and move forward with her life, but the unrest in her mind and the tears beginning to gather in her eyes seem to have other plans.

Crying has always been a vicious cycle of sorts for her; unless she's in the midst of a near-death experience, it usually only happens when she's _really _angry, and the very fact that she's crying tends to make her angrier still. The betrayal that's been weighing heavily on her shoulders only seems to provoke her further, leaving an incendiary rage to which she's not accustomed and frankly doesn't know how to handle. She glances to her side once more; ironic that he could probably help her with that when he's partially to blame.

She pulls herself to a sitting position, folding her legs beneath her, and hugs a pillow to her chest, fighting to keep her voice neutral. "Are you awake?" she asks softly into the darkness.

She's not surprised when she hears a shift beside her; when she looks over a second later, he's sitting up as well. Her eyes have adjusted to the lack of light enough that she can see the worry and guilt in his. "You okay?" he inquires.

She opens and closes her mouth a couple of times. "No," she eventually says, hating her voice for cracking as the word emerges. _Damn it._

The bed dips a little as he moves toward her. _You don't get to do this_, she wants to say. _You don't get to make things better_. Instead, the anger gets the best of her and she raises the pillow that rests in her lap, impulsively smacking his arm with it.

His eyes widen with surprise and confusion. "What the –"

"You _asshole_," she seethes. "How could you walk away? After everything you've been saying for almost two years."

He freezes for a split second. "Andy..."

She doesn't want to do this – doesn't want to admonish him and with it, give him the vindication for which she knows he's longing. She meanly thinks that maybe he deserves to feel awful until she no longer does. But the floodgates are open; there's no stopping it now.

"I know rules aren't really your thing, but does 'always have your partner's back' mean 'only if she's not backing her ex'? I was focused on the case. _You_ made it personal." She pauses and waits for the sting she expects to accompany a mention of Luke, but it doesn't come. So she presses on before her emotions can catch up with her.

"You know, I'm starting to think you're all talk. 'There when it matters'? I don't know, how about when I'm about to be strangled in a storage locker? Does it matter then?" She's vaguely aware that she's shouting, her eyes challenging his.

He scrubs his forehead with one hand and swallows thickly. "I screwed up today. I'm…"

She doesn't have much time; she can feel it. "What, sorry? Do you know how little that word means to me at this point?" She feels her breath catch in her throat and tosses the pillow to the side, swinging herself around to the edge of the bed. "Look, this was a mistake. I'm not doing this."

"Hold on." She feels the bed shift again, sees him moving in her peripheral vision to sit beside her.

She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. "I can't. I'll go, or…"

"Don't."

She shakes her head and moves to stand up, wanting to remain with him and needing to be anywhere else.

He takes in a sharp breath behind her. "Andy, please."

It's the urgency, the desperation in his tone that stops her in her tracks. She sits back and dares to look at him, too tired and distraught to care anymore if he sees her tears.

She's never seen him like this, with fear and remorse etched in deep lines across his face; he's clearly struggling to maintain his own composure. He's not trying to defend himself or make excuses. There aren't any, and both of them know it. When she feels a tentative hand on her back, her last scrap of restraint disappears, and she allows herself to lean into his embrace.

"Everyone leaves," she murmurs, once she's sure she can speak again. "I just… didn't think you would."

He stiffens momentarily before resting his head atop hers, his arms tightening around her. "I'm sorry, Andy," she hears him whisper into her hair. "I'm so sorry. Please…" He trails off, and she's not sure what he's asking for. Forgiveness, maybe – but she knows that even if she grants it to him immediately, it'll take him far longer to forgive himself.

* * *

She doesn't know how long they sit there, nor does she remember finally falling asleep. It's morning, though, when she opens her eyes and finds her head resting on something decidedly human. One of Sam's arms crosses the front of her shoulders, with the other wrapped across her abdomen, pulling her against his body. Soft rhythmic breaths echo behind her ear.

She's never been able to sleep with somebody touching her. Even when she started to become the slightest bit comfortable with the idea of spending the night in a bed with another person, she always required a good amount of distance. By that token, this should be strange; it should complicate things (if it's possible for things to be any more complicated than they already are). But she feels serene here, cleansed of the anger and shame that coursed through her last night. She can't remember the last time she had such a sense of calm.

She feels him stir and inhale deeply. "Hey," he says.

"Morning." She makes no attempt to move.

"Do you want to get up, or…?"

"In a minute." She hopes he takes the hint and remains in place. (He does.) They lie there, breaths in sync for a moment until he begins to speak again.

"I must've moved in my sleep. I didn't…"

"I know," she responds. "I, um. I took a lot out on you last night and it wasn't all…"

He lightly squeezes her shoulder. "I know."

After a moment, she ventures, "We're okay. I mean, I am if you are."

She feels him nod against the back of her neck. They slowly begin to disentangle their limbs and sit up.

"I'll go get some coffee started," he says, but she places a hand on his arm.

"I just want to get this out," she begins, watching his eyebrows knit together in concern. "Um… I think I'm going to stay with Traci tonight."

It's almost indiscernible, the way his face falls, and she hastens to continue. "Not because I don't want to be here. It's just… we both know where this is headed, right? And I'm not ready yet. I need to be, when it happens." She lets her words linger in the air for a moment, knowing he'll pick up on her phrasing; whatever this thing is with them, it's inevitable, not hypothetical.

"Okay," he finally replies, his eyes warming with relief and hope. He climbs out of bed and begins to make his way toward the door.

"Sam."

He turns back.

"Thank you."

He takes a step in her direction. "What for?"

"Being here," she says.

He blinks slowly. "Anytime. Uh… thanks for letting me."

She feels a mischievous smile tug at her lips. "Well. You did say 'please'."

He shoots her an incredulous look before breaking into a grin, one hand on either side of the doorframe. "What am I going to do with you, McNally?"

She shrugs, her smile growing. "I'm sure you'll think of something."


	3. Stay

A/N: Thank you for the terrific feedback on the last chapter! We're moving right along here to immediately after "You wanna try being normal together?" in 2x13, because I couldn't resist this particular word – and clearly, neither can they. :) Everything that happens in 3x01 is pretty much negated here, as you'll see.

I didn't initially intend for a ton of drama to be present here, but it does kind of veer into that territory; I think these things sometimes have a mind of their own. (I swear my next story is going to involve little other than Sam and kittens, just to balance out all the heavy stuff that keeps finding its way out of my head.)

Reviews make my day and serve as brain food, so please let me know what you think. I continue to own nothing.

* * *

**Stay.**

He turns off the ignition, but neither of them moves. She studies the laceration near the bridge of his nose. "I shouldn't be here," she finally says.

"But you are." His extraordinary calm is utterly bewildering to her. She sighs and turns away, watching newly fallen snow collect at the base of the window.

"I know you must be exhausted" – she's trying not to think of what else he might be – "so if we can just go inside, I'll call a cab."

She doesn't have to look at him to see his ephemeral smirk; he's undoubtedly also thinking about the last time she entered a place he was dwelling and one of them intended for her to leave in a taxi. He thankfully doesn't comment, though – simply climbs out of the truck and walks toward his porch. She follows, apprehension and uncertainty feeding the burgeoning knot in her stomach.

The house somehow feels colder than the winter air outside as they enter. He curses under his breath and turns on the thermostat as soon as she closes the door behind her. She wanders in past him and flips on the hallway light before glancing back at him uneasily, shifting her weight from side to side.

He takes a step toward her, and she immediately swings her bag around her shoulder, unzipping the top and rummaging blindly through it. "Do you have a phone book?" she asks. "Or actually, never mind, I can just call information…" It's not as if she really has anywhere to go, but he doesn't know that. If she's going to walk out that door tonight – and she has to, doesn't she? – he needs to remain in the dark on a few things. Like the fact that it's killing her to leave him.

A shadow falls across her anxiously moving hands, and she looks up to see his face inches from hers as he supports himself on the wall behind her with his good arm. "What are you doing?" he asks, still infuriatingly even-keeled.

She lets the bag fall to the floor, crossing her arms over her chest. "Best said no contact during suspension. We couldn't even go five minutes without breaking the rules, Sam."

He appears to consider her words. "Weird."

"What?"

"You must've gotten a different lecture than I did," he muses. "Because _I_ was told, 'No seeking each other out during suspension'."

She lets her head sink back against the wall. "How is that any different?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Can't seek someone out if you're already with them, can you?"

"You stopped the truck to talk to me," she objects. "And I got in. Sorry to sabotage your loophole, but…"

"The suspension didn't officially start until we left tonight," he interrupts smoothly. "And we were still on division property when I stopped you."

_This is ridiculous_. "Do you really think that's going to hold up when they find out and try to take our jobs for this?"

"No one's taking anyone's job," he says with a conviction she finds inconceivable. "Staff sergeants don't pay surprise visits to suspended employees. You're careful, nobody finds out anything. And, hey… maybe he should've been more specific. We can't be held responsible for that."

She feels her resolve beginning to waver, and when he finds her clenched hands and coaxes them out of their defensive position with his own, it takes everything she has to remain still. _I have to go_, she rehearses in her mind. _I'll leave town for a couple of weeks to make it easier_. Under his touch, though, it seems impossible to verbalize any of it.

He seems to sense that she's vacillating, and leans closer so that their foreheads rest against one another. "Stay," he implores, his eyes burning into hers.

The word reverberates through her for the second time in as many days, destroying her fledgling mental protestations, and suddenly the only thing on her mind is how scary and rash and utterly perfect it feels as her mouth finds his.

* * *

It's not until much later, when her body is swathed in soft charcoal-gray sheets and her pulse has finally slowed to normal, that she's hit with the enormity of what could have been – what nearly was. She's catalogued every bruise and abrasion he has, but is far too aware for her own liking that any intangible injury might be slower to appear. She tries not to believe that her own impulsivity was a catalyst for the whole debacle, reminds herself that Brennan would've made Sam regardless of her presence as soon as he found out about the boat. It's difficult to stick to the facts, though, when all she can see are surfaces in the cover apartment marred with his blood; faces filled with anger and disappointment as she admits how she came to have knowledge of the operation. She shivers involuntarily against Sam's side, then freezes just as quickly, hoping maybe he's too tired or distracted to have noticed.

The arm resting on her back pulls her closer a second later, knuckles running lightly over her spine. _Nothing gets past you, Swarek_. "You cold?" he asks softly.

She shakes her head. _Not cold. Just a person who put the life of someone she really cares about – more than cares about – in danger_.

"Hey." He tilts his head down to meet her eyes. "None of this is your fault."

As always, his apparent clairvoyance is both impressive and annoying. She opens her mouth to confirm that she knows she's not to blame; the last thing he needs to be worried about right now is her state of mind. But her inability to lie has always been hundredfold with him, and if she tries, it'll just drag this out further.

She eventually emits a shaky laugh. "Can we agree to disagree?"

A momentary cringe crosses his face, and he gingerly shifts onto his side, the fingertips of his braced hand brushing over her cheek. "No," he whispers, the tenderness in his gaze almost more than she can take.

She presses her head into his shoulder, curling up as close as she thinks she can without hurting him. She wants to tell him that she's never been more scared, that she can't imagine having lost him – but has a feeling he already knows. She just lets herself rest against him, her hand draped on his chest so the sensation of his heartbeat pulsates through her skin; a reminder that even if he's battered or broken, he's here. This is real.

* * *

For the next week and change, time passes in a vacuum. They respond to voicemails from friends with cursory text messages: _I'm okay_ or _I just want to be alone _or _I'm up in North Bay until suspension's over_. (Lying to Traci turns out to be a whole lot easier when they're limited to 160 characters.) They become intimately familiar with every nearby restaurant that offers delivery. They don't leave the house; some days they barely leave the bed, sleeping on and off for a few hours at a time. Andy usually gets cabin fever in the worst way if she's stuck inside for more than a day or so, but this (like everything with them) is different. Instead of feeling trapped, it's like they're in a cocoon of sorts, where all the regrets and reprimands and terrifying near-misses can't touch them.

Which isn't to say they don't talk. The words are halting at first, as if being too direct with one another will somehow break the reverie in which they've found themselves, but it doesn't take long until everything finds its way out into the open.

They move forward through time, giving the fresh wounds a chance to heal before taking them on. Quiet confessions are murmured into the darkness; things they need to hear each other say. She starts, tells him she doesn't know how she walked away from him when he offered her a ride home from the Penny after their day with Anton and Emily. He responds after a beat that he was somewhat relieved when she pulled back. "I think I knew even then," he admits, his fingers tangled in her hair. "But it was…"

"It scared you," she supplies, her own feelings from that night somehow still vivid.

He lets out a sound that's not quite a chuckle. "If we're being honest… more like petrified."

She presses a kiss to his rough jaw (he hasn't shaved in a couple of days) and lets the words float in the air between them.

Later, they turn to the night of the blackout. "I like to think I would've stopped you if the lights hadn't come back on," he tells her. "It wasn't what you needed, and if we were gonna… It should've been because we both wanted it. Not because you were trying to forget."

"I know," she acknowledges. "Hard to imagine going through with that and… ending up here." She threads her fingers through his and takes a deep breath. "The whole 'it was what it was', though… I had no right, maybe, but it really did hurt."

He sighs, brushing his thumb over hers. "You had a right to feel however you did. I just… I wanted you to be happy."

"I wanted _you_," she says quietly. "I just didn't know how to process it, and you were still my training officer… and the more you pushed me away, the less I knew how to tell you."

"You're telling me now," he replies gently after a moment.

Gradually, they lay to rest every disappointment, every unresolved instance. After she asks whether he'd have stayed if he'd gotten her voicemail ("You're kidding, right? You think I would've turned down three weeks of this?" he responds with a smirk), their conversations veer into the superficial, revolving around what to order for dinner or which movie to watch. Andy knows what remains unaddressed, but also that it's his to tell. On her sixth night there, when she thinks he's already fallen asleep, he clears his throat and begins to speak.

She listens with a fist pressing into her mouth as he recounts his horrific encounter with Brennan, squeezing her eyes shut and nodding at his toneless description of weapons and waterboarding (especially waterboarding, how could anyone…?), knowing that no appropriate response exists in any language. If she didn't know better, his stoic recollection of the torture could just as easily be a list of factoids from an encyclopedia or something, but she recognizes his detachment as the only way he can think about this, let alone tell her, without being consumed by it. It'll catch up with him sooner or later, she's certain.

It turns out that it doesn't take long at all. She wakes up at three in the morning to find the sheets cold and wrinkled beside her. Sam's discarded shirt is on the floor to the bed, and she pulls it over her head as she pads across the room. As she slips down the stairs, she sees the glow of the television reflected on the wall, and slowly makes her way into the darkened living room. Sam is sitting motionless, clearly not watching the enthusiastic infomercial that plays before him. His expression is flat, and the glass in his right hand contains a finger or two of Scotch. As she approaches him, she notices the haunted expression in his eyes; wherever his mind is right now, it's going to be a long journey back. She hesitates, not wanting to see what happens if she startles him; after a moment, she moves in front of him, perching herself on the coffee table and waiting. It takes a while, long enough to worry her, before his gaze appears to focus on her and recognition begins to traverse his face. Only then does she reach for the glass in his hand. He doesn't resist as she removes it and places it on the coffee table behind her.

His hands are trembling; she reaches out instinctively to steady them with her own, and finds herself being pulled toward him, tumbling awkwardly onto his lap as his arms thread around her back. His desperate grip on her skin is firm enough that she won't be surprised to find bruises in the morning, but she doesn't really care; not if she can be what he needs right now. She feels him bury his head in the soft flesh where her neck meets her shoulder, and rests her cheek against his hair. She's vaguely aware that the infomercial is wrapping up, and another starts – then another and another, until the somewhat familiar tones of the early-morning news show chime behind her.

Sam's hold on her eventually begins to loosen, but she doesn't move until he lifts his head from beneath hers and pulls back to meet her gaze. She studies his eyes, reddened with something beyond lack of sleep, and runs her fingers down his cheek. He silently reaches for her hips and carefully shifts her to the side before covering her hand with his own, pulling her to a standing position as he rises. She lets him lead her upstairs and into bed, feels his arms slide around her torso and his body tuck in behind hers. It's not long before he relaxes against her and his breath becomes even.

This particular issue will probably rear its ugly head again, she realizes as her own eyelids begin to grow heavy. But when it does, she'll be there.

* * *

Frank calls Sam a few days later and tells him to come in the next morning. It's not surprising, Sam explains to her; whenever he's seen things like this happen before, the senior officer involved typically gets called in first.

"What are you going to say?" she asks as they clean up the kitchen that evening.

He shrugs. "Depends on what they ask." He closes the dishwasher and swipes his damp hands over a towel before walking toward her. "It's gonna be fine."

"You don't know that," she says quickly.

"I have a pretty good idea," he responds, reaching for her waist. "And you have to admit, McNally – I'm not wrong a whole lot."

It's hard to keep a straight face when he grins at her like that, but she doesn't stop worrying until she hears his key in the lock the following afternoon. She runs to the door, where he hands her a brown paper grocery bag before lifting another from the porch and following her in.

"So?" she prompts him, ready to burst at the seams.

"So… I got a bunch of stuff because I didn't know what you wanted tonight. Chicken and pork chops – I figure we can always make one tomorrow," he says casually as he walks toward the kitchen. "You like asparagus, right?"

She lets the grocery bag drop to the floor in frustration. "Sam!"

"I hope that wasn't the one with the eggs in it," he continues before looking up at her face. She's putting on her most severe bad-cop expression, the one he once admitted was a little scary; it works. "It was fine, Andy. They reinstated me with a very polite warning that they'll have my ass if I do anything stupid, and I'm back at work tomorrow. Desk duty until the hand is fully healed, which I can't say I love, but…"

She sighs with relief. "Good. Good."

He smiles. "By the way, whatever you said to Nash worked – no one has any idea about this, they all think you're out of town. And, uh… a little bird who looks a lot like our staff sergeant told me that he expects you back by the end of the week. Might want to get your uniform ready."

The next morning, she slips out the back door after Sam leaves (no matter how convincing her North Bay story was, she's still paranoid), takes the bus to the storage facility where most of her possessions are being kept, and gathers a few things, uniform included. She drops it off at the dry cleaners on the way to her real estate broker's office. Michelle is more than a little surprised that Andy has changed her mind about buying a place, given how enthusiastic she was about it just a few weeks ago, but Andy explains she's just not sure it's the right commitment for her to be making at this moment. (She may or may not have certain other commitments in mind.) Michelle drives her around to some rentals; the third place is smaller than the condo Andy was looking to buy, but has a similar layout and an abundance of natural light. All of her paperwork is still on file at the brokerage, so she can sign the lease that afternoon – and since it's the end of the month, she'll be able to move in in a couple of days.

Sam seems fine with the news when she tells him over dinner. As wonderful and necessary as the last couple of weeks have been, they both know they're not quite at the point of permanent cohabitation. "I think we're in a good place," she says to him.

He nods once, a slow grin blooming on his face. "Better not do anything to screw it up, right?"

Two days later, as movers carry the last contents from the storage unit into her new apartment, her cell phone rings. She quickly tells Frank that she'll be there in the morning.

She's making pretty decent headway unpacking when someone knocks on the door. Her eyes widen when she opens it to find Sam. "Get in here!" Before closing the door behind him, she looks up and down the balcony, half-expecting a mass of white shirts to spring out from behind a column.

He chuckles. "I doubt you have to be worried about someone finding us here. You moved in less than twelve hours ago."

_Damn it, he's right_. "Well… still," she finishes lamely.

He laughs again. "Figured you could use a hand unpacking."

Several hours and just a few distractions later, most of the boxes have been emptied, leaving a neat stack of flattened cardboard by the door. Sam insists on taking it down to the recycling bin when he leaves, despite her protests that she can do it in the morning. "Look, it's bad enough I'm gonna have to sleep by myself tonight," he says softly. "At least give me this, so I don't have to worry about you tripping over boxes on the stairs and breaking your neck."

She kisses him goodnight by the door, knowing she won't be sleeping much either.

* * *

The tribunal isn't an enjoyable experience by any means, but at least they decide in her favor relatively quickly. She thanks them as they give her the good news and a warning similar to the one Sam received, and she makes her way down toward the sally port. The hallway leading to the door is empty, and she leans against the wall for a moment, breathing deeply. After a few moments, she feels someone beside her; she doesn't have to look to know who it is.

"Welcome back," Sam murmurs.

She smiles, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "Thanks."

"Glad you stayed?"

She rolls her eyes. "What do you think?"

"I mean it. Was it worth the risk for you?" he asks quietly, the back of his hand brushing hers. She slowly winds their fingers together.

"You always are."


	4. Plan

Thank you so much for the awesome reviews for the last chapter! I was definitely worried about certain plot points working (e.g. the whole thing), and I very much appreciate knowing that it did. This chapter is set in the future, a little more than a year after Stay. (Just as a warning, it may put you into a diabetic coma.) Let me know what you think, and enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

**Plan**_**.**_

Andy wraps her arms around herself, briskly rubbing her hands over her biceps. It's been a temperate spring so far, but it still tends to cool down pretty quickly as it starts to get dark. Her cotton T-shirt isn't doing an especially good job of keeping her warm, and she can feel through her jeans the chill of the wooden stoop on which she sits. She wishes she'd thought to grab her jacket (or her shoes… okay, definitely her shoes), but acknowledges to herself that dressing properly for the weather isn't always a priority when one's goal is getting out of a situation as quickly as possible.

She leans her head against the railing to her left and lets her gaze drift out over the grass. She's always loved the view out here; between the backyard facing west and the house's position on a small hill, there are some pretty spectacular sunsets to be had on clear evenings like this. Tonight, though, it's impossible to appreciate the softening cobalt and blurred hints of pink that begin to pervade the sky.

Whenever she's seen Sam's deer-in-headlights expression before (and she can count the number of times on one hand), it's always been fleeting and closely followed with a smooth recovery and sarcastic quip. This time, he just kept looking at her, jaw slack and eyes widened, until she stammered something she's now pretty sure wasn't in English and scrambled to her feet. With that experience replaying on a loop in her mind, natural beauty is proving to be a rather inadequate distraction.

A year ago, she'd have been halfway home by now, bare feet notwithstanding. But as tempting as the prospect of being indoors with a generous glass of wine may be, this is as far as she wants to go (and not just because her house keys are sitting on his hall table). It's one thing to give herself a little distance from the situation, but distance from each other has never made either one of them especially happy. Plus, she's not about to be the one who breaks their unspoken pact to stick around when things become difficult. (Knowing he won't take off is one of very few things she's comfortable taking for granted.) Since their relationship began, they've had a fair number of arguments, a few massive fights, and she's barricaded herself in the bathroom on more than one occasion – but it's always somehow comforting to know that he's cooling down on the other side of the door, and they'll talk things out when they're both ready.

* * *

They probably have Oliver to thank for it, at least in part. Andy was partnered with him one day a few weeks after being reinstated, and as she approached the squad car, Oliver tossed her the keys.

"Hungry?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I already ate."

"Good," he said with a decisive nod. "Breakfast it is."

"But, I'm really not…"

"Yeah, yeah," he replied. "Driving will help you work up an appetite."

As she tried to figure out where logic came into play in his statement, Oliver gestured impatiently. "Let's go, McNally. Suncrest Diner."

"Everything in that place is served with a side of extra grease," she protested as she opened the car door.

"A _complimentary_ side of extra grease," he corrected her, climbing into the passenger seat.

After they ordered – coffee and toast for Andy, some enormous platter involving the word 'lumberjack' for Oliver – he leaned back against the booth's red vinyl backrest. "You know Sammy and I have known each other a long time, right?" he asked.

She nodded. "This isn't one of those 'if you hurt my friend, I'll make you pay' lectures, is it?"

"No, it's not," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Unless you want it to be, in which case it could be arranged. What I was _gonna_ say was that he's smiled more since he got back from suspension than he has collectively in all the years I've known him. The man has been on desk duty for almost a month, McNally, and all he does is walk around with a shit-eating grin on his face." He paused to thank the waitress who dropped off their food before turning back to her. "Whatever you're doing to him, and feel free to spare me the details… it's real good to see him happy."

She smiled, her eyes on her coffee mug as she wrapped her hands around it. "We both are."

"Yeah, I know," he responded. "Which is why I want to give you a little advice so it stays that way."

She looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

He took a deep breath. "Never go to bed angry at each other. If you can fix it right then, great – but if it's too big for that, agree to put it on hold until the morning. Things are _always_ better in the morning. Don't push things off, don't bring up the past if it has nothing to do with what's going on, and don't ever walk out – nothing good comes of that, believe me."

She nodded slowly, trying to keep her expression neutral. At this point, it wasn't exactly a secret around the division that he hadn't been staying at home, but she knew better than to bring it up.

Oliver resumed speaking, despite the somewhat uncomfortable look on his face. "Thirteen years of marriage. And you know when things went south? When we started going to bed angry at each other." He looked up at her. "Just remember that."

* * *

She suspects Sam received a similar talk, because they never have. The idea of putting a fight on hold was strange at first, but they learned to recognize when they weren't getting anywhere and the best course of action was to just go to sleep. There was always a kiss, a few reassuring words: _this will be fine_ or _we're going to be okay_ – then, once it had worked its way into their vernacular, _I love you_. Even though they aren't exactly fighting right now, she knows he's giving her time to collect herself, and he's become eerily good at knowing when to resume conversation.

As if on cue, she hears the glass door slide open behind her and Sam's footsteps quickly cross the small deck. As he takes a seat next to her on the steps, she notices her jacket hanging over his arm.

"Thought you might need this," he says quietly as he holds it out to her.

She accepts the jacket from him, swinging the black corduroy over her shoulders and sliding her arms into the sleeves. "Thanks."

They sit in silence for several minutes, looking across the backyard, until Sam sighs. "So_ that_ was, uh…"

Andy groans and covers her face with her hands. "Sam, please don't. Let's just… forget it ever happened, okay?"

He leans closer to her so that his leg is brushing hers. "That's probably not gonna work."

She shakes her head. "Yeah, I figured as much. Maybe you can just go back inside, then, until I'm done wanting to die of humiliation?"

He's trying to take this seriously, she knows he is, but the amusement in his voice is unmistakable. "How long do you expect that to be?"

"I don't know," she says. "Better give it about a month. You know, to be sure."

He chuckles. "Andy." She feels his hands gently pulling hers down away from her eyes. "It's really not that bad."

She looks at him incredulously. "Who does that, though? I mean, at least admit I wrecked your night."

"You didn't."

"Come on. You have a long day, you're finally relaxing and watching the playoff game you've been talking about for a week – and out of nowhere, your girlfriend busts out with 'We should get married'? It doesn't get worse than that for a guy."

He hesitates. "It wasn't... it's not what you think."

"Sam, I saw your face," she responds softly, her eyes darting away from him. "You were… horrified. And I don't blame you, really. I don't even know where that came from."

She hears a slow exhalation beside her. "Look at me, will you?"

"Do I have to?" she mumbles.

"I would certainly appreciate it if you did." His tone is still patient, but it's clearly taking him some effort to keep it that way, so she slowly complies.

"I didn't mean to look at you like that," he begins. "You just caught me off-guard; I think that much was obvious. The thing is…" He trails off, and his hand brushes over her knee. "I just wasn't expecting…"

"I know," she interrupts. "You weren't expecting that, and I'm sorry…"

"Just give me a second here," he says, the T.O. in him finding its way into his voice. He tilts his head to look up at the sky before turning back to her. "I wasn't expecting it _tonight_, because…" He sighs. "I had a plan, okay?"

This time, the stunned expression is hers. "You… what? What are you talking about?"

He laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out in front of him. "You remember Evan Mills, right?"

The corners of Andy's mouth turn up at his mention of the name. "Of course. That was… a really good day."

Sam smiles. "Yeah, thanks to you. An eleven-year-old kid missing for 30 hours, most of us were starting to lose hope – grasp at straws. We were all caught up on the custody stuff with his parents, thought his father took him to Alberta, but you picked up on that throwaway thing his mother said. How the only time he'd been happy since they separated was when he was at Scouts."

"And we went to talk to his scout leader…"

"Because you insisted," he continues, bumping her shoulder with his. "And then even when I told you they'd searched High Park already, you wouldn't leave me alone about it until we went back to the nature trails."

"The leader said that when they went hiking, Evan had told him he wouldn't mind staying out there forever," she recalls.

"And you saw his jacket near the ravine," Sam says, shaking his head with a grin. "Somehow you managed to spot the only inch of fabric not completely covered in mud and leaves."

Andy laughs softly. "I couldn't believe he was alive. Shaken up, yeah, but… fine." The rest of the day is as clear in her mind as if it happened hours instead of months ago. Evan's mother bounding from a squad car toward her son. Every copper there suddenly finding that they had something in both their eyes. Sam turning to her in the cruiser as they drove back to 15, his words echoing in her memory: _You're amazing, you know that?_

She forces herself to return to the present. "So what does Evan Mills have to do with this plan of yours?"

"I was going to take you to the park. And… I had this whole speech ready about how much I love the faith you have in everyone and everything, even when it's driving me nuts, and… ask if maybe you thought you could have that kind of faith in me for…" He trails off, mumbling something unintelligible that Andy can't catch.

"Huh?"

He squints down at his feet before appearing to steel himself and looking directly into her eyes. "For the rest of our lives." He continues quickly before she has a chance to react. "And then, depending on what you said, I had this… ring made, and…"

"Wait, hang on," Andy interjects. "You had a ring _made_? Is it in the house right now?" _Okay, of all questions you could've asked right now…_

"No, it's not in the house, and it's… it's not that complicated," he hastens to explain, his hands gesticulating rapidly. (It's not often Andy gets to see him flustered like this, and she can't help but note how absurdly adorable he looks.) "You pick out stones and a setting, and they put it together, and…" He blows a long breath out through pursed lips before continuing in a softer tone. "I just wanted you to have something that was… different, you know? Yours. If you said yes."

"Oh my God," she whispers, overwhelmed. As far as they've come, what she's endured in the past isn't lost on him, and she knows the gesture is a promise to do everything in his power to prevent her from getting hurt again. She blinks hard. "It's a really good plan."

"It's not bad," he agrees. "Of course, there's one problem with it."

She laughs shakily. "That I just ruined it?"

"Nope." He shoots her a sidelong glance – God, he's gorgeous when he smiles like that, teeth grazing over his bottom lip – and leans toward her. "Plans aren't really my thing."

"Um, I disagree. You came up with _that_, so…"

"Coming up with them, I can do," he acquiesces. "Carrying them out is a whole different story. You know, I see an opportunity…" He stands up, sauntering down the few steps to the yard before turning back to her with a wicked grin.

"What are you… oh. _Oh_." Her pulse practically doubles in speed, and she begins breathing faster. "But… I'm not wearing any shoes," she blurts out.

He laughs. "Who cares?" His hand is in his jacket pocket; she sees a flash of black velvet enclosed in his fist when it emerges.

"Is that… You said it wasn't in the house!"

"It wasn't," he shrugs. "It was in my pocket, out here." When he smiles at her again, it occurs to her for the first time that he looks kind of nervous. "Now do you think you can shut up long enough to let me do this?"

She nods wordlessly, hands over her mouth to prevent any more speech or her racing heart from escaping as he lowers himself to one knee in front of a resplendent sky.

She knows that in days and weeks and years to come, this will be one of her all-time favorite stories to tell. His question, almost shy; her enthusiastic assent; a beautiful (and yes, one-of-a-kind) ring being slipped onto her finger; him lifting her up off the steps as their lips meet. Vivid as most of the details may be, though, she has a feeling she's sure as hell not going to remember the sunset.


	5. Heartbeat

A/N: Wow, thank you so much for the awesome feedback on the last chapter! This is the final part of Lexicon – this story's been really fun to write, and it's so great to know that you're reading and enjoying.

This one's set around a year after we left off; the rough timeline sketch in my head is that Plan happened sometime in April and they got married in September. (I somehow don't see them as wanting a really long engagement, although the two of them planning a wedding in a relatively short period of time might make for a cute outtake at some point if I can come up with it.) I'm fully expecting that a lot of you will figure out what's going on here well before Andy does, but taking the journey through her eyes is half the fun of it… and since it's already quite a long chapter, I'll stop rambling now. :) Thanks again for reading.

Disclaimer: I still don't own Rookie Blue. The song lyrics/references mentioned are from "The Luckiest" by Ben Folds, which I also do not own (but it's quite pretty and I recommend you give it a listen if you haven't).

* * *

**Heartbeat.**

Of all the difficulties she's faced on the job this week – a string of burglaries complete with mocking notes left for the cops; some truly impressive verbal abuse from people who didn't want speeding tickets; an agonizing death notification after a hit-and-run that made her briefly but seriously question why she got into this in the first place – Andy is convinced that the one she'll be most glad to put behind her is Gail Peck.

They're actually pretty friendly outside of work most of the time, which Andy now realizes is probably only possible because they're rarely assigned to patrol together. Forcing the two of them to spend ten hours in a squad car for five consecutive days has turned out to be a punishment too cruel and unusual for any transgression to justify. Something about the situation transforms them into oil and water, and stubborn pride is the only thing that's kept Andy from begging for desk duty since the second day.

Anyone else would have been better, she's certain. Dov wouldn't tell her how tired she looks with near-sadistic glee in his voice, Chris wouldn't care how often she requests a bathroom break, and Oliver sure as hell wouldn't slather himself in revolting gardenia lotion – that stuff is more or less akin to dousing the cruiser's interior with the cheapest perfume known to man. "'Just a little on my hands this morning,' my ass," Andy mutters to herself as she passes through the sally port, still unable to shake the cloying odor from her nostrils.

Of course, it's not like she can imagine Sam doing any of the above either, but riding with him hasn't been an option for the past seven months. Andy understands the rationale behind precluding spouses from partnering together in the field, really she does – but it doesn't make the reality suck any less. No one complements her out there the way he does, and she just plain misses working with him – their ability to bounce ideas off one another without needing to finish sentences and communicate volumes with a momentary look is a rare thing that serves to benefit the task at hand, and both of them know it.

At the same time, though, she can't deny it's worth the trade-off. For somebody who – not all that long ago, in the grand scheme of things – couldn't stomach the thought of spending an entire night with another person, she's taken to married life like a duck to water. She never imagined that a few legal documents and some jewelry could significantly alter the nature of a relationship, but the memory of waking up the day after the wedding, Sam's tranquil voice mumbling "Good morning, wife" in her ear still makes her smile whenever it crosses her mind. Since then, they've settled into a dimension of comfort with one another she didn't think existed. Rather than leading her to panic, the permanence both reassures and invigorates her. It's something she never knew she needed until shortly before realizing that she never again wants to live without it. (And while she doubts she'll ever admit it to anybody because it seems a little silly, it gives her a tiny thrill every time she sees the flash of white gold on his left hand.)

A grin finds its way across her face as she enters the locker room. They both have three days off after this, and she's looking forward to catching up on some much-needed sleep, laundry, and… well, whatever else comes up. (Knowing exactly how persuasive Sam can be when he's so inclined, she has a feeling the first two might end up on hold for a while.) She opens her locker and quickly trades her uniform for jeans and a loose sleeveless shirt, tossing the cardigan she wore this morning into her bag; it's still pretty warm out. As she's attempting to comb the ponytail bump out of her hair, Gail breezes past her. "It's been real," she says blithely.

Andy rolls her eyes. "Later." _Much later, hopefully_. Her hairbrush falls out of her hand and clatters to the floor, and as she leans down to retrieve it, a wave of dizziness rushes over her. "Whoa." She reaches forward to grasp the ledge of her open locker, trying not to allow her knees to buckle as she sinks to the bench.

Gail turns around. "Hey, you okay?"

There's an unexpected roaring in her ears, making Gail's voice sound like it's coming from underwater. "I just need to sit down," Andy says (or at least is fairly certain she says). There's a water bottle in her bag right next to her; she probably just needs to rest for a second and take a drink. Or maybe just close her eyes real quick. Yeah.

It's like she's sleeping all of a sudden, in that moment after her alarm clock has penetrated her dreams but before she really knows she's awake. Something is moving on her arm – a hand, maybe? – and the underwater voice is back, except now it's brought friends. "Holy crap, she's, like, _gray_," one of them says. When her eyes open, people are crowded around her – Gail, Traci, Kara Davis who just transferred from 27 Division – with unanimous expressions of concern. Gradually, Andy realizes she's still on the bench in the locker room. She moves to get up, only to feel several hands guiding her back to a seated position. "Just relax. Maybe lean your head forward," she hears Kara suggest.

It takes a minute for Andy to remember how to formulate words and then deliver them. "What happened?"

"I think you passed out for a second," Traci says gently. "I was heading out on a dinner run and I heard Gail yelling in here. How are you feeling now?"

Andy wants to crack a joke about how Traci's official promotion to detective must have come with a stipulation that makes her the default takeout retriever for the D's office, but she doubts the statement will emerge coherently, much less with any discernible humor. "Still kind of dizzy," she instead admits.

Traci stands up and reaches for her own combination lock a few feet away. "Hold on, I think I have something."

"You don't know if Swarek and Collins are back yet, do you?" Gail asks Kara.

"They're in interrogation," Traci interjects as she swings open her locker door. "They nabbed a couple of guys this morning for the Parkdale robberies. We've been switching off on them all day – can't get anything out of them."

Gail nods. "I'll go get him."

"No, it's okay, don't…" Andy calls futilely after Gail's retreating form. "Great."

Kara gives her a small smile. "Sorry to do this, but if my ride leaves without me, it's two buses and an hour home. Feel better, Andy." She follows Gail toward the exit.

Andy lets her head rest against the cool metal doors behind her. "Trace, he's gonna flip his lid."

"No, no, he'll be fine," she replies absently, rummaging in her bag. "Yes! I knew I had one of these in here." She holds up a box of apple juice in triumph and sets to work pushing the plastic straw through the foil perforation at the top before handing it to Andy. "Drink. You might have low blood sugar."

"Is there anything you don't carry around?" Andy asks, obediently taking a sip.

Traci shrugs. "Welcome to motherhood." She pauses for a second, appearing to consider the words, before her eyes widen. "Um, Andy, you know it's not out of the norm to pass out if you're…" she motions to her own midsection.

Andy looks at her, uncomprehending for a moment; when Traci's implication dawns on her, she shakes her head as vehemently as she thinks she can without making it spin even more. "Oh, no, no, no. _No_. I can't be." She tries to envision a calendar; she just had her period last… okay, maybe two… _uh-oh_.

Traci sighs. "By 'can't be', do you mean you don't want to be, or are we talking immaculate conception? Because unless things have done a 180 with you two since our last girls' night…"

Andy feels her cheeks color slightly, remembering her wine-induced assurances that newlywed stereotypes have nothing on the reality; she has a vague recollection of the phrase 'like bunnies' being thrown around amid peals of laughter. "I guess it's possible," she concedes. "I was just banking on being in the 99 percent of Pill users, you know?"

As Traci nods, footsteps approach from outside. "Andy?" she hears Sam call from the doorway.

"Yeah, come on in," Traci responds on her behalf. "I'll be outside if you need anything," she tells Andy as she heads toward the door.

Sam enters the locker room and leans forward to brush his lips over her temple before taking a seat beside her. "What's going on?" he asks, confusion evident on his face.

Andy hesitates. "Um, what did Gail tell you?"

He rolls his eyes. "That my presence was requested in here, and to try not to be a caveman this time if I can help it."

_Okay, maybe Gail's not evil after all_. Andy knows the caveman remark refers to a day about a month after their honeymoon, when all available units from 15 were called to the scene of a particularly brutal homicide; a man had shot and killed his entire family before turning the gun on himself. While clearing the house, Andy had had the misfortune of finding the youngest child, a four-year-old girl still wearing a princess nightgown. Sam took one look at Andy's ashen face and tried to get her to go back outside, where Chris was beginning to take statements from the neighbors. She refused, telling him she was fine. When he pressed the issue, she snapped that he wouldn't do that for any other cop. He responded without thinking that she wasn't any other cop; she stiffened at his words and despite the immediate regret he expressed, she told him exactly where he could shove his apology and stormed outside. They nearly came to blows back at the barn that afternoon, everyone around them uncomfortably aware of their escalating anger despite the hushed tones they managed to maintain. She walked home that night, and he spent close to an hour with the heavy bag in the mat room before leaving. It was nearly midnight when they had both calmed down enough to talk, but he eventually agreed to do his best to keep his protectiveness in check, on the condition that she only tell him she was fine if she actually was. (She admitted she hadn't been, not really.)

They've both held up their respective ends of the bargain ever since, but Andy wonders if he'll actually take this in stride. Coupled with the fact that he's probably already wound up from spending hours with tight-lipped suspects in vain, she has visions of being thrown over his shoulder and carted off to the nearest emergency room.

His expression is beginning to turn to one of worry, and she takes a deep breath. "I just got kind of dizzy for a second." He raises an eyebrow, and she continues in a rapid mumble. "And… maybe blacked out a little bit, don't freak out."

"Are you okay?" he asks, his tone controlled. "Do you want to go to the doctor, or…"

She waves her hand at him. "No, I'm just a little shaky. And I'd rather just go home."

He looks as if he wants to protest, but nods after a moment. "I'll let Jerry know and go change," he says. "You want something to drink?"

She holds up the juice box. "Traci's got it covered, thanks."

He smirks a little. "What's the thing on the side supposed to be?"

She turns the cardboard container in her hand, focusing on the furry purple creature printed on the label. "I don't know. A juice monster, I guess?"

"Thought those were a myth, like unicorns and good romantic comedies." He smiles despite the fragment of concern that remains in his eyes. "Wait here, I'll be right back."

Traci sits with her until he returns; despite the calm demeanor he projects, his rumpled hair and the disheveled sleeves of his T-shirt indicate that he's changed in record time. "Ready?" he asks, throwing her bag over his shoulder with his own and placing a hand on her back as she slowly stands.

She nods. "We, uh… we need to make a stop first."

* * *

To his credit, Sam doesn't say anything when he sees the package in her hand, even if his eyebrows nearly leap off his face and hit the ceiling. He just places a bottle of Gatorade beside it at the register, which he then makes her drink during the ride home. As a result, she bolts for the house before he's turned off the engine, barely making it to the downstairs bathroom in the front hall.

The results are supposed to take three minutes to show up, but the second line darkens before she's finished washing her hands. She picks the test up in disbelief, shaking it vigorously as if it's an Etch-a-Sketch, and she can simply reset an image she doesn't like. No dice; it's still positive when she relaxes her hand. "Oh shit," she breathes. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit._"

Her voice must have been louder than she thought, because Sam gently raps on the door. "Andy."

She braces herself on the edge of the sink for a minute, attempting the deep cleansing breaths she's learned at yoga, then opens the door, test in hand. She holds it up, her eyes nervously searching his face.

He stares at it for a second, then nods slowly. "Okay," he says. "It's… yeah, okay."

She puts the test down on the counter. "Okay? That's it?"

They find their way to the living room and settle on the couch, Sam's arm around her as she folds her legs underneath her body and rests her head on his shoulder.

She speaks first. "It actually explains a lot, I think. My mood being all over the place, having to pee all the time…"

"Not wanting to eat anything but mashed potatoes…" he supplies.

"Mm-hmm," she says. "It makes sense. Increased fatigue and sense of smell…"

She feels a short chuckle rumble through him. "Among other increases." When she looks up quizzically, his eyes are on her chest. She swats him; he shrugs. "You can't expect me not to notice something I'm pretty well invested in."

"I can't tell if you're a dirty old man or a twelve-year-old."

"Twelve, huh? Whatever you say, Mrs. Robinson," he shoots back with a smirk.

They sit in silence for a moment, Andy's mind a veritable storm, until he speaks again. "Care to share with the rest of the class?"

She sighs, not knowing where to begin or how – so she starts with the lamest argument she can think of. "We haven't been married that long."

He snorts. "Is that a requirement now? You have to be married for a certain length of time before you can have kids?"

"No," she says, rolling her eyes. "But… most people don't really start thinking about it until they've been married for at least a year, right?"

"We've never been most people, McNally," he points out. (She considers reminding him that she's no longer McNally when she's out of uniform, but based on experience, she knows that'll lead to a completely tangential discussion having to do with him _getting_ her out of uniform, and much as she'd love to drag this out even longer…)

"Hey, come on," he suddenly says, a little more gently. "This whole 'open communication' thing was your idea, remember?"

She groans softly against him. "It's overwhelming. There are just so many ways to screw it up, you know? Like, if you pick the wrong car seat, it automatically makes you a terrible person. And Noelle and Frank taught Maya sign language before she started talking. I don't know sign language. What if I don't want to learn it? Does that mean I don't care enough, or…" She gasps suddenly. "Oh my God, Gail and I had sushi for lunch on Wednesday. I didn't have much, I haven't actually been hungry in forever, but I know there's a million things you can't have and sushi's definitely one of them. I already made a mistake, and I only found out fifteen minutes ago."

"Okay, okay. Relax." He pulls her closer to him. "Oliver's youngest, Julia – he affectionately refers to her as their 'planned surprise.' They wanted another one at some point, just not right that second. So Zoe wasn't exactly in the pregnancy mindset, and… I guess by the time she realized, Julia was pretty decently acquainted with Cabernet and medium-rare steak." He strokes her shoulder. "She's six now, totally fine. A little off-the-wall sometimes, but I think that has more to do with being six than anything else. Point is, it's usually okay if you have something you're not supposed to before you find out."

She nods. "All the rest of it, though, I…"

"I hear people like to express opinions about other people's kids," he says, his hand drifting up to tangle in her hair. "Someone's always gonna think what you're doing is wrong. You just try to make the best decisions you can, and if people don't like it, screw 'em – it's not their kid. And you not caring enough… I don't think that's possible, Andy."

She doesn't say anything in response, just shifts her body so she can look across the room. Sam follows her gaze to a framed photo on the wall. It's fairly obvious that he knows her concerns go well beyond car seats and baby sign language, but he doesn't seem to have a problem with her taking a break.

"I think that one's my favorite of all two thousand, or however many they took," she says.

He nods in agreement. "Yeah." It's from the first dance at their wedding. In the picture, she's extended out from his body in mid-twirl, her head tossed back in laughter, and he's sporting an enormous grin. "I still think that song was weird, though."

"Oh, okay," she retorts with a smile. "This coming from the man who wanted our first dance as a married couple to be to Styx."

He shook his head. "All I said was that 'Lady' is a classic. And that part in the song we went with, about not getting many things right the first time – I can't say it was all that accurate."

She rolls her eyes. "Right, because you're perfect."

"Your words."

She snorts. "You liked that line in the middle, though."

"Which one?" He leans his head closer to hers so that his voice echoes in her ear. "'I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you'? Yeah, wasn't bad."

Her smile grows; the words serve as a subtle encouragement to continue, that he's ready to hear whatever she needs to say. She takes a deep breath. "We kind of skipped over the part where we talked about it. Wanting kids and all that. I mean… do you?"

It takes him a second to respond. "It's not something that was ever a goal in life, if that's what you're asking. I guess I always figured I would if the right person to have them with came along. Of course, it wasn't so much that she just came along – she actually tackled me…"

"Tried to kiss you, yeah, yeah," Andy supplies with a laugh, having heard the speech enough times to be able to recite it verbatim in her sleep.

"So you finally admit it, huh?" he says, a lazy grin crossing his face.

She elbows him. "Shut up." Her expression gradually grows more somber. "I've always been kind of on the fence about it. I mean, I thought the same thing – I liked the idea of having a family with the right person – but it still really scares me. The whole idea of literally growing another human being and then being responsible for it for the next two decades, it's… I don't even know how to wrap my head around that. And you and me… we didn't exactly have the best role models."

He absorbs this silently, and she knows there's no need to elaborate. Abandonment and alcoholism on her side, incarceration and involuntary commitment on his – it's a pretty dubious pedigree. In a way, it's miraculous that they've managed to pull off this solid a relationship.

"I'll give you that. But we also both know a thing or two about breaking cycles," he points out after a minute. "And, you know, Traci seems to be doing a pretty good job, and Oliver's a great dad. Your role models for raising kids don't necessarily have to be your parents."

She nods against his shoulder.

"I remember something Ollie said once before Izzie was born," he continues softly. "How it's terrifying to think about giving up that much of yourself, and you get wrapped up in all the things that can go wrong… but when you hear that heartbeat for the first time, it's like all that disappears. Like it's something you were waiting for your whole life, but didn't know it."

_Like you were to me_. She curls up closer to him, and images flash through her mind. A sonogram filling a computer screen. Her growing belly jumping a little as a kick reverberates from within it. A newborn with dark hair and big brown eyes and maybe dimples. First smiles and steps and words – and she sees Sam throughout all of it. Reaching for her hand as they watch grainy images of a tiny body moving inside of her; brushing matted hair off her forehead during labor and telling her firmly that yes, she can and will do this; gazing down in fascination at the infant he's holding securely against his chest.

She trusts him with her heart, her life; she suddenly can't wait to trust him with her future.

He gently nudges her shoulder with his. "You okay?"

"I'm good." She smiles and lets her eyes drift to her abdomen. "There might be a heartbeat in there right now."

His free hand comes across and settles just below her navel. "Pretty awesome."

She feels like she'd be happy to remain there with him for the rest of time (or at least until the next time she needs a bathroom break) when she feels an involuntary giggle rising in her throat.

"What is it?"

She chuckles again. "Just wondering how you're supposed to find me attractive when I look like a beached whale."

He shakes his head. "Andy, if I find you attractive with morning breath and bed head, I think it's pretty safe to say I don't know how not to."

"Really."

"Mm-hmm." He runs his thumb back and forth over her stomach. "What I'm really worried about is when your appetite comes back. You eat pretty strange things as it is, so once the cravings kick in…"

"I do not eat strange things."

"You put teriyaki sauce on French fries."

"It's good," she protests. "It's… fusion."

He laughs. "Freak."

"I'm _your_ freak."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. "That you are."

She smiles against his shoulder. "I think this could be really great, you know? You, me, and…" She reaches her hand down to her torso and laces her fingers through his.

He grins down at her. "That's what I've been telling you since the beginning."


End file.
